


better left unanswered

by haleofStilesheart



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Cats, First Kiss, Getting Together, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, Pining James, Porn With Plot, Post-Skyfall, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Warnings for the author (an American) attempting to use UK linguistics, background James Bond/Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: Bond's learned a lot in his life about questions that just shouldn't be answered. Which serves him very well when his Quartermaster abruptly asks, "Am I fuckable?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially my first (finished, well sort of finished) fic for this fandom! So, hopefully, it doesn't completely suck. Fair warning: I'm American so hopefully there are no glaring mistakes in the diction and syntax of British speakers.  
> I plan to add another chapter/part/sequel to this but I have no idea when I'll be done that because I'm currently writing 221654354684 other fics. So, please don't hate me if this stays un-updated for awhile!

Throughout his life, Bond had learned that some questions were better left unanswered if at all possible. No matter how much the questioner appeared to genuinely desire an honest answer.

For example, he had learned that when someone, typically a woman in his experience, looked fat in a certain article of clothing, the wisest course of action was to assure them that no, they did not. Even if they were a Rubenesque beauty in a piece of clothing designed to hug every curve of their body.

Because while Bond knew that there was nothing necessarily bad about being fat, society had a nasty little way of demonizing weight. Bond would never truly understand it.

What he did understand was that when one provided an honest answer to the aforementioned question, the response was more often than not a slap across the face or a dramatic fight.

He also understood that when caught in a supply closet with a maid at Eton, one should not defiantly raise one's chin and proudly announce that they had indeed been groping and snogging the girl like an untrained pup. Not unless one wanted to be unceremoniously booted out of Eton and sent away to Fettes College.

But at thirteen years old, he had been a cocky, hormonal little shit and had bragged to anyone who would listen about his little rendezvous with the gorgeous maid who miraculously became more and more beautiful and buxom with every retelling of the story.

Just a few years later, during his first trip to Paris with a few other red-blooded classmates, he had lost his virginity to a girl a few years older than him. She had been the picture of French beauty with long brown hair and big, beguiling blue eyes.

In the morning, after a night of too much champagne and French wine that led to a quick tumble in the sheets, they had been rudely interrupted before they could go another round. By none other than her father.

Bond had quickly learned that the wisest choice would have been to lie or flee or shamelessly beg for forgiveness. Instead, he had smirked at the girl's incensed father with all of the indolence of a sated tomcat.

He had gotten a broken nose for his troubles. And, later, a slap across the face when he made it abundantly clear that he wouldn't be remaining in Paris to properly wine and dine and court his first lover.

Similarly, he had learned that while on a date or out for drinks and asked how many people he's slept with, a lie was more socially acceptable than actually sitting there tallying up his past conquests. The truth had a way of earning him disgusted looks, and on a few memorable occasions, drinks thrown in his face.

After a handful of nights that stood out in memory, he had learned that providing a truthful answer to questions about the various scars that littered his chest and back and limbs resulted in horrified looks and frantic fleeing on the part of his causal lovers. It seemed to be better to lie about a car accident or simply write them off as old Navy injuries.

And he had learned that answering questions about religion, his own religious briefs in particular, usually produced disturbed expressions on the part of whoever had asked. He had simply explained that after some of the horrible things he had witnessed throughout his life, all of the senseless violence and brutality of humankind, he didn't believe in God and suddenly he was no longer invited to tea.

Which was perfectly alright with him. He despised tea.

During his tenure as 007, he had learned several immeasurably important lessons about what questions to answer and which ones to steadfastly avoid like the bloody plague.

Rather early on in his career, he had learned that sarcastically answering a rope wielding maniac's questions would only manage to get one's balls so thoroughly battered that they became intimately familiar with the term _ testicular torsion. _ Such intimate knowledge had resulted in the most wretched trip to Medical that he had ever been forced to endure.

He had also learned that when answering Psych's inane questions to ascertain his mental health and determine whether he was fit for active duty or not, it was best not to tell the truth. That would only result in mandatory visits to a therapist and, even worse, actually talking about one's feelings.

Realistically, Bond knew that there was nothing wrong with open, honest communication, but he was nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch.

No, it was better to fabricate some kind of story or, better yet, learn how to anticipate the desired results in order to provide them. He had once perfected a lie about a nice little house in Sussex waiting for him once he decided to retire that was so believable he had managed to maintain it for upwards of three years.

If anything, he had expected the psychologists on payroll to institutionalize him for having any thoughts about retiring at all. Double-0s didn't retire unless forced to, either by decree of M or a bullet to the head.

Additionally, he had learned that when a lover asked him, either directly or indirectly, to leave MI6 and run away with them, whether it was to Venice or the Mediterranean or bloody Norway, he should run away from them as fast as humanly possible.

Otherwise, it would only result in more death and heartbreak for both parties involved, in sleepless nights full of whisky and regret. All of which was something he would rather avoid given how many times he had experienced it in the past.

Through all of his experiences, he had learned that although certain answers may not be the most desired ones, many times they were the wisest. Which is when Q finally arrived at the pub for a pint with him and Moneypenny and promptly demanded, "Am I fuckable?" Bond wasn't entirely sure what he should say.

The tradition of meeting with Moneypenny at the pub was a long-standing one of Q's. It had been formed shortly after he had been recruited by MI6 to become the previous Quartermaster, Major Boothroyd's, second hand man.

Moneypenny had instantly taken a liking to the then designated R who had never hesitated to answer the double-0s' brutish demands with scathing retorts and developed some of the most inventive gadgets in MI6 history. Inventive gadgets that actually  _ worked. _

Quickly adopting him as her favourite boffin, Moneypenny had begun inviting him to lunch and making sure the poor bloke didn't work himself to death. He had returned the favour by fiddling with her fax machine to make sure it was practically un-jammable and hacking Amazon to get her free shipping on any order whatsoever.

After a rather harrowing mission involving 009 and an overly complicated security system, during which Q had to take over as handler for old Boothroyd before the man keeled over, Moneypenny had invited him out for a pint.

After the first time, they had returned to the pub only a week later to celebrate Q's official promotion to Quartermaster and toast Boothroyd's retirement now that the old fellow admitted he wasn't well enough acquainted with emerging technologies to continue on as Q. It was bittersweet but also about time.

Their trip to the pub became a regular occurrence after that.

They would frequent their new favourite bar by Grosvenor Square after particularly difficult missions as a form of stress relief and miniature intervention to stop Q from overworking himself as he was wont to do. Occasionally, drinks would turn into dinner at Corrigan's and Moneypenny was miraculously able to convince Q to eat something more than the chocolate digestives he kept hidden in his office.

Other times, it simply turned into a night of carefree drinking and revelry as they went from pints to cocktails to shots to dreadful hangovers the next morning. But it was worth it to see the buttoned-up Quartermaster let his hair down so to speak and absolutely shit-faced like a normal human being.

Bond had only recently been included in their tradition, invited along by Q after he had returned from a rather grueling mission in Abidjan. He had made an offhand remark about desperately needing a drink while returning his only partially damaged equipment to Q when the other man had mentioned he was going to be meeting Moneypenny at a nearby pub, claiming Bond was welcome to join them in spite of Bond's total disregard for his equipment.

Favouring Q and Moneypenny's company over the cold emptiness of his lonely flat in Chelsea, Bond had accepted the invitation and followed Q to the pub. He would have much preferred to drive, and Q had told him that he was more than welcome to drive himself, but Q had decided to walk to the pub as per his usual routine and the last thing Bond needed was to have his Quartermaster attacked and mugged in the middle of the night.

The promise of a bit of time spent alone with Q hadn't had anything to do with Bond's decision. Not at all.

Moneypenny had given him an odd look when they had arrived at the pub, cocking a perfectly waxed brow as he had shrugged out of his peacoat. But her bemusement had given way to a wide, welcoming grin when Bond had offered to pay for the night's drinks.

They had spent a few hours in the pub, sipping their pints and sharing stories about their days. Apparently while Bond had been waist deep in international corruption in Côte d'Ivoire, MI6 had brought in a new batch of field agents trainees.

Q had complained about their lack of respect concerning Q Branch as a whole, pouting like an angry kitten as he recounted the way they had scoffed at his position. Toying with his napkin, he had announced that he hoped they had their arrogance beaten out of them during training.

Moneypenny had sympathised, having had to deal with one particularly brash recruit who had made a few disparaging comments about female agents. She had nearly stabbed him with her heel.

Bond had very gentlemanly offered to volunteer to spar with the recruits during his week of leave, because he was nothing if not a dutiful agent. His offer had earned a mischievous little smirk from Moneypenny and a delighted laugh from Q who had offered to buy him another drink.

His attendance at the pub had become rather regular occurrence after that. Well, as regular as possible when he was out of the country half of the time.

When he was in London, usually between missions when he could spare some time to drink and engage in a bit of banal office gossip that was surprisingly entertaining, he would meet Q and Moneypenny at the pub. Occasionally Tanner or Alec would tag along as well, even Mallory joining them after a horrid day of budget meetings.

Tonight, Bond was two days off a harrowing mission gone south in Jaipur where he had foiled an international jewellery smuggling ring that had been stealing priceless jewels from local families and selling them to the highest bidder in Europe. They had then used the profits to fund domestic terrorism operations in Canada and the United States, mostly virulently racist and extremely violent so-called Christian hate groups.

It hadn't been a particularly difficult assignment per se, the smugglers had left behind a trail of breadcrumbs that Hansel and Gretel could have followed, but the bastards had fought dirty. Ambushes were never fun, not when they involved musclebound Americans who didn't care about how many civilians got hurt in the process.

Despite his broken ribs, the first degree burns on his left forearm, and his effused knee for which he had been given a bloody cane by Medical, Bond had decided to venture out of his flat for the evening, meeting Moneypenny at the pub. He had left his cane behind, not exactly feeling up for old man jokes.

Tanner wouldn't be attending the pub, too busy having a rare night out with his wife at one of London's most exclusive restaurants. With a bit of leave on his hands, he was making the most of it.

Alec might join them later but there was no guarantee he would make an appearance. Returning from a long mission in Johannesburg, Alec might opt for an evening spent catching up on sleep.

Q himself was running a bit late, running over to the Met's ballistic lab to consult with another expert for a second opinion about something for 0013's upcoming mission in Dhaka. According to Moneypenny, he might be awhile, dealing with mountains of paperwork and bureaucratic nonsense.

Bond and Moneypenny had a pint each as they patiently waited for Q, Moneypenny demanding details from Bond about the Jaipur mission. He had rolled his eyes at her, muttering something or another about her missing fieldwork, and launched into a detailed description of his thwarting of the smuggling operation.

"Even managed to return a few things to the families," Bond explained, taking another sip of his nearly finished Heineken. He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand as he continued, "The bloody idiots kept a ledger full of the names of families they stole from for forged authenticity certificates. I suppose they wanted to make them as seemingly legitimate as possible."

Moneypenny shook her head, diamond drop earrings swaying with the motion. Raising her own nearly empty glass, she toasted, "Cheers to stupid criminals."

Bond raised his pint, touching his glass to Moneypenny's. Setting his pint back down, he went on, "Q said he's having a few techs track down the rest of the jewellery. Hopefully, everything will get back to their rightful owners."

"You spent all that time returning the jewellery yourself but didn't even bother to pick me up a gift?" Moneypenny demanded with a prim pout, narrowing her eyes at Bond. She drummed her freshly manicured nails on the table as she waited.

"Sorry," Bond said casually, clearly not sorry at all as evidenced by his wide grin. Shrugging, he explained, "I was too busy picking out a souvenir for Q."

Moneypenny rolled her eyes, shaking her head at him again with a small huff. His habit of bringing Q the most kitschy, pedestrian souvenirs he could find while on mission was somewhat notorious considering the fact that MI6 was essentially full of gossips. Quite ironic for an intelligence agency specialising in keeping secrets.

It had started as a way to annoy Q, Bond's favourite pastime when he wasn't fighting and fucking and drinking his way across the globe. He had been in a marketplace in Guangzhou on a mission investigating the Triad when the perfect gift for Q had caught his attention, stopping him in his tracks.

With his mission objective already completed and no other threats apparent, Bond had given in to his whimsy and decided to browse for souvenirs. Namely, souvenirs for Q.

Among a sea of porcelain and jade figurines and hand painted paper fans, was a section of cat-themed souvenirs. Most were  _ maneki neko, _ lucky cats actually originating from Japan, but there were a few jade figurines scattered throughout the collection, along with the figurine that had caught his eye in the first time.

A small white cat with calico spots of black and orange, the porcelain figurine reclined on its back, all four legs outstretched. Its eyes were closed, mouth painted on in a red smile along with a tiny nose and whiskers.

There was a pithy proverb written in Cantonese across the cat's fat belly, the black paint standing out in stark contrast to the white porcelain. Bond immediately knew that it was perfect.

Thirty yuan later, Bond was on his way back to the airport with the porcelain cat wrapped in paper and tucked away in a gift bag. A sixteen-hour flight after that, he was back in London where he presented Q with his gift.

The thoroughly unamused look on Q's face when Bond had set the porcelain cat down on his desk rather than the gun and earpiece he had been issued had been utterly priceless. And it had been all Bond needed to continue bringing Q souvenirs from his missions.

The other double-0 agents had quickly adopted Bond's habit, taking just as much pleasure in annoying their Quartermaster as Bond did. And once they all started, they had inevitably devised a competition to see who could get Q the most plebeian souvenir.

Q, who had thus far managed to avoid throttling any of the double-0s, had even started keeping a chart in order to determine who was winning. He had developed a highly sophisticated system of gold stars for that explicit purpose.

Currently, 005 was in the lead thanks to the gifts he had brought back from an intel gathering mission in Yokohama. Like a right proper kiss arse, he had returned from Japan with a bouquet of stargazer lilies and pink carnations, multiple gifts for Q, and all of his equipment intact. The bastard.

Q had  _ adored  _ 005's gifts, reportedly cooing over them as he carefully opened them. The current R had similarly fawned over the gifts as she had relayed the story to Moneypenny earlier, conventionally within earshot of Bond.

One of the gifts was a  _ tenugui  _ cloth, featuring three anthropomorphic cats dressed as samurai in  _ hakama  _ and  _ haori. _ All three felines wielded katana, bright smiles on their round, furry faces.

The other gift was two pairs of  _ tabi  _ socks. One pair was tan, decorated with leaping foxes and orange maple leaves, the other pair a deep red emblazoned with the sinuous form of a navy blue dragon and wisps of white smoke.

Yet despite 005's lead, Bond was sure that he was going to eke ahead of the other agent with his most recent purchases: a hand-painted elephant figure in various shades of blue, green, and purple; and a pair of gold lacquered Hindu figurines, one of the wisdom goddess  _ Saraswati  _ and one of the war goddess  _ Durga. _

Having had a mission in India, it only made sense to pick out an elephant souvenir the way that other double-0s had during missions in Delhi and Kolkata and Hyderabad. By now, Q had amassed quite the collection and Bond only saw it fit to add to it.

As for the goddess idols, Bond hadn't been able to choose between, not exactly sure which one reminded him of Q more.

_ Saraswati  _ was the obvious choice, playing her  _ veena  _ while perched delicately on the back of a peacock. In her visage, in the palm leaf scroll she held, Bond saw what he immediately thought of when he thought of Q: his oftentimes intimidating intelligence and scathing wit.

But in  _ Durga,  _ astride her lion mount and armed with multiple weapons, Bond saw one of Q's other defining features. He saw Q's readiness to combat the messy, bloody parts of the world to safeguard England, calm in the face of the storm while ensuring that all of his agents made it home as unharmed as possible.

So, indecisiveness stymying him, Bond had simply decided to purchase both. Well, because of that and because the woman selling the figures had been one of the hapless victims of the smuggling ring and desperately needed the money. Despite what many claimed and even more believed, Bond wasn't completely heartless.

"I bet you also bought him some tea," Moneypenny commented, a playfully accusatory tone bleeding into her voice. Raising her brows as she raised her glass to her lips to finish her pint, she smiled deviously to herself.

Bond didn't bother to answer verbally. His smile was confirmation enough.

Because of course, he had purchased tea for Q. He wasn't an idiot. And he wasn't above a bit of arse-kissing himself. He knew that the only surefire way into Q's favour was tea.

"Earl Grey, I presume," Moneypenny said, setting her empty glass down. Tucking a few curls behind her ear, she shifted to uncross and then recross them.

Bond wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Still curling his lip, he corrected, "Assam, actually."

"Very bold, Bond," Moneypenny whistled, sending him an impressed look. "Deviating from the usual course."

"Assam's actually native to India," Bond explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. Shrugging, he added, "I figured what's the point in getting him a blend he can get at Tesco?"

Moneypenny's eyes widened a fraction. Tsk-ing, she sagely warned, "Don't let Q hear you say that. He'd have your balls just for implying that he'd ever drink Tesco's brand."

Bond had no doubt whatsoever about that. Q took his tea very seriously.

Bond had once mentioned that he had no taste for tea himself, carelessly calling it 'mud' within earshot of Q. Like some avenging spirit, Q had suddenly been at Bond's side, swiftly booting him out of Q Branch, from which he was barred for the following three weeks.

"I'm hoping the higher caffeine content will keep our dear Quartermaster placated," Bond smartly tacked on after a moment of thought. A happy Quartermaster meant a merciful Quartermaster, a Quartermaster who wouldn't send him on a mission with just a toy gun.

"I'm sure Q will appreciate that," Moneypenny agreed, nodding to herself. She opened her mouth to say something else, probably a cheeky remark about Bond's balls and their attachment to his body, when her phone let out a cheery hum, cutting her off.

"Speaking of, that's probably him," she pointed out as she picked up her phone, tapping in her lock code. She hummed as she scanned her eyes over the screen, reporting, "Said he'll be here in a tick—" she looked up from her phone with a wide grin, gesturing towards her empty glass "—Be a dear and get us another round, will you?"

"Of course," Bond scoffed, already pushing himself to feet. Reflexively buttoning his suit jacket, he ignored the twinge of pain in his knee as he stood, skillfully concealing a wince. "Make the poor injured man fetch the drinks."

"Hush, you big baby," Moneypenny instructed, rolling her eyes as she turned her attention back to her phone. Typing something, a response to Q, Bond assumed, she reminded him, "You've been through far worse."

"Oh, yes, like when you shot me?" Bond retorted, turning and striding across the pub towards the bar before Moneypenny could respond. Smiling to himself, weaved around a group of already-drunk university lads, nodding his head at the bartender.

The bartender was an older man, probably in his sixties, with a rapidly receding hairline and a host of liver spots on his neck and hands. By now, he recognised Bond, and the others he frequented the pub with, greeting the agent with a friendly grin.

Resting his elbow on the lacquered wood bar top, he politely returned the bartender's smile. Raising three fingers, he requested, "Three pints, please."

The bartender nodded and made his way back down the bar to pour the requested drinks, checking on a few other patrons as he did. Bond tapped his fingers as he patiently waited, subtly shifting his weight to alleviate the uncomfortable pressure on his knee.

A moment later, the bartender returned, carrying three pints of Heineken. Bond paid the man, with a rather generous tip as per usual gratuity policy, and carefully carried the drinks back to his and Moneypenny's table.

Setting the pints down, he grabbed the fourth, extraneous chair placed at the table, tugging it closer to himself as he sat back down. He raised his leg to set his foot on it, keeping his knee elevated to hopefully alleviate the slight pain. At times, he obeyed Medical's instructions.

He hadn't even taken a sip of his new pint before Q finally arrived, slipping into the pub out of the pouring rain, the bell on the door chiming to announce his arrival. The sound immediately drew Bond's attention, his eyes riveted to the front door as they had been the last four times other patrons had entered the pub.

The slim figure standing by the door was undeniably Q, evident by oversized anorak and the glimpse of fox patterned socks peeking out from the topline of his Oxfords. Somehow, he managed to look even more harried than usual. Which was certainly saying something.

His dark hair, stubbornly unruly on the best of days, was damp from the heavy rain despite the cover of the fur-trimmed hood of his baggy jacket. It stuck up in several spots, other patches plastered to his skull, those spots even darker than his usual hair colour, appearing completely black.

His thick glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose, precariously close to falling off his face entirely. The lenses were speckled with fat drops of rain, obscuring his eyes.

He was bundled up in his too-big olive anorak, arms wound round his slim waist to keep it from blowing open in the wind despite the done-up stays, the London wind rather aggressive. Even so, Bond could see a glimpse of his underlying outfit, a dark brown cardigan paired with a maroon pin dot tie and a pale pink shirt.

He looked soaked to the bone, shivering a bit as he tugged his hood off and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more until he looked like a sodden hedgehog. A sodden hedgehog with deplorable eyesight that had to fish a handkerchief out of its trouser pocket to dry its glasses off, squinting around the room.

He blinked a few times as his eyes readjusted, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket as he made a beeline for the table where Bond and Moneypenny were seated, his jaw set determinedly. Before bothering to so much as remove his coat or take a seat, with any preamble, Q demanded, "Am I fuckable?"

Bond nearly choked on his own spit. Only years of training his reflexes and involuntary responses saved him from embarrassing himself by aspirating to death. It wouldn't do for a highly trained killer, England's finest if he said so himself, to keel over just from a bit of surprise.

But what a surprise it was.

It wasn't just the blunt, thoroughly unexpected question itself that had Bond reeling, though it was certainly a very considerable contributing factor, it was the fact that he had never before heard Q swear.

Sure, he had heard Q mutter a few 'bloody this' and 'bloody that's when he was especially frustrated, whether it be with his new interns or dealing with higher-ups in MI6 who still looked down their noses at him because of his age. But Bond had never heard him swear to this degree. It was rather scandalous.

But never mind the swearing. Q's question itself was enough to have Bond, a man who claimed that nothing surprised him anymore, staring in disbelief.

A quick glance at Moneypenny confirmed that she was similarly shocked. Her kohl-rimmed eyes had widened exponentially, more white than anything as she gawped at Q.

Q didn't seem at all deterred by their palpable surprise. He simply continued looking between the two, setting his hands on his hips; clearly expecting some sort of answer or response or  _ something. _

Bond couldn't speak for Moneypenny, and knew well enough to never attempt to do so, but he was thoroughly torn. He had no idea what in the hell he was supposed to say.

Was he supposed to tell the truth and agree that yes, Q was fuckable, so much in fact that since the moment he had met Q in the National Gallery, he had wanted to sleep with him? That, right now in that moment, if Q so much as a hinted that he would be at all open to the possibility of having sex with him, Bond would scoop him up and drive them back to his flat posthaste, traffic laws be damned?

That his first instinct upon noticing Q enter a room was to give the Quartermaster a thorough once-over, despite whatever not-so-ridiculous cardigan he was wearing? That half of the time during his briefing for missions, when Q was providing him with his equipment and going off on tangents about how he would make Bond's life a living nightmare if he failed to return it all, he was busy watching the flutter of Q's thick lashes and the bob of his Adam's apple to pay much attention to his words?

That Q's voice in his ear, all crisp and posh and no-nonsense, had quickly become his favourite part of missions? That whenever he had to seduce someone during the course of said missions, especially men, he would take a moment to think about Q and what it would be like to seduce  _ him  _ instead?

That he often wondered how a man could look so strong yet so delicate? So much so that he desperately wanted to strip Q naked, piece by piece, just to see what he looked like bare? To see how muscled his legs were, to see the cut of his hips, to see if his ribs were visible beneath the smooth alabaster of his skin?

That even now, he was staring at Q's lips, wondering what they tasted like? Wondering what they would look like, would feel like, wrapped around his cock?

That in his more shameful, rather embarrassing moments, he had taken himself in hand like a prepubescent lad who had just seen his first porn mag? That in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, ensconced in emboldening darkness, he would satisfy himself to thoughts of Q in his bed?

That, like a smitten schoolboy with his first crush, he oftentimes even dreamed of the Quartermaster? Of his green-grey eyes, his bitten-red lips, his thick brown curls?

No, he couldn't do that. Not in a million years. Not unless he wanted to completely shatter the camaraderie and trust he had painstakingly developed with Q over the years.

But what else could he do? Lie and claim that no, Q was not 'fuckable', as he had put it? He couldn't do that either.

Not when Q looked as desperate as he did. As though he was clinging to the hope that he was sexually appealing and denying such would be absolutely devastating for him.

Bond had been in less sticky situations while trapped in a burning house that was being bombarded by a barrage of bullets and assaulted by a generous amount of grenades.

Utterly lost, feeling panicked in a way that he never did even while on the most dangerous of missions, Bond looked to Moneypenny. She still looked rather incredulous herself, though Bond very much doubted it was because she was suffering from the same internal struggle that he was.

Fortunately, Moneypenny was able to compose herself much quicker than Bond was. Enough to awkwardly clear her throat and suggest, "Maybe you should sit down, love."

"I think you're quite right," Q agreed, nodding decisively to himself. With a heavy sigh, he went about undoing the stays on his anorak, tugging it off to reveal his rumpled cardigan and slightly wrinkled shirt, his tie somewhat loosened.

He draped his wet jacket over the back of his, combing his fingers through his hair again as he took a seat with another beleaguered sigh. His brows lifted slightly when he noticed the pint waiting patiently for him, letting out a soft, appreciative coo under his breath. "Oh! You ordered for me. Thank you. Though I do think I'll be needing something a bit stronger tonight."

"Yes, yes, I'll buy you a whisky later," Moneypenny promised, waving her hand about dismissively. Leaning a titch closer to Q, she pressed, "Now tell us about why you're suddenly so worried about whether or not you're fuckable."

Q let out yet another sigh, sounding a bit like a deflating balloon for all of it. He lowered his eyes to the table where he nervously drummed his fingers against the side of his pint, he recounted, "Like I told you, I had to stop by the Met's ballistic lab. Needed to talk to their expert about something, it was all very boring."

Sparing a glance up at Bond and then at Moneypenny before lowering his eyes again, he claimed, "Anyway, on my way out, I happened to run into that bobby—" he looked to Moneypenny again "—The one I told you about."

"The tall one with the cute dimples who keeps asking you out?" Moneypenny inquired, perking up a bit the way she did whenever she heard so much as a whisper of gossip. Honestly, how the woman had ever managed to keep state secrets absolutely baffled Bond.

But he shoved that to the side in favour of bristling at the mention of some other man with designs for Q. A bloody bobby, who apparently couldn't take no for an answer considering the fact that Moneypenny implied he had asked Q out more than once.

"Precisely," Q confirmed, nodding. He paused to take a quick sip of his pint, the bubbly foam clinging to his upper lip in a manner that was altogether much too distracting.

He lapped it up with a swipe of his kitten pink tongue that had Bond's mind plummeting directly to the gutter without a second of hesitation. He only just managed to pull himself from his less than appropriate thoughts to focus on what Q was saying.

"He offered to walk me out," Q continued with an endearingly shy dip of his chin, setting his glass down. Tipping his head to the side, he pointed out, "Which I very much appreciated."

He paused again, this time chewing his bottom lip for a moment. By the time he stopped his anxious worrying and continued on, his lip was a bright cherry red. "This time, I asked  _ him  _ out. Figured, why not? He's a nice enough bloke; intelligent, ambitious, unfairly gorgeous. And he's been asking me out so he was clearly interested, right?"

He trailed off with a frustrated frown, his brows drawing together as he stared down at his pint. As another vicious stab of jealousy coiled in Bond's gut at the thought of some bumbling idiot pining over Q, even if he had stupidly turned Q down, Moneypenny helpfully supplied, "But...?"

_ "But," _ Q continued, still frowning darkly, "When I asked him if he'd like to have dinner with me sometime, he laughed. He actually laughed."

Moneypenny's amusement vanished in an instant, leaving her looking just as confused as Bond felt. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind, especially someone who had apparently been pursuing Q, would turn him down? And what kind of cruel cad laughed at him afterwards?

Moneypenny leaned closer to Q, narrowing her eyes into vicious slits. Frowning deeply, she pressed, "What do you mean he laughed?"

"I mean he laughed!" Q reiterated emphatically, throwing up one of his hands before letting it fall back to the table, jostling their pints a bit with a soft clatter. "He laughed right in my face. Then he told me that I'm the least fuckable person he's ever met and I'd have to be bloody mad to think that  _ he  _ would ever go out  _ me." _

Bond's jealousy shifted, almost instantaneously metamorphosing into righteous indignation. He was sorely tempted to demand the bobby's name so he could hunt down the daft arsehole who had put that utterly dejected look on Q's face.

He only barely refrained from doing just that. He highly doubted tracking down Q's one-time suitor was a good way to keep his own pathetic pining under wraps.

"He clearly said it to get a rise out of you," Bond pointed out instead, curling his fingers around his pint to keep from balling them up into a fist. Shrugging, he went on, "A bit of payback, is all. You shouldn't give him the satisfaction of worrying about it."

"Easy for you to say," Q scoffed, rolling his eyes while taking another long sip of his pint. Bond frowned at him, not sure what exactly Q was on about.

Luckily, the Quartermaster wasn't shy about explaining himself. Wetting his lips as he set his glass back down, he boldly asserted, "You're objectively gorgeous. You walk into a room  _ knowing  _ that everyone thinks you're fuckable. And then you end up sleeping with half of them just to prove it."

"Oi!" Bond protested, though Q wasn't necessarily wrong in his observations and he knew it. Bond knew that he was attractive according to current societal standards and more often than not, he used that knowledge to his advantage, both on mission and not.

Nonetheless, the confirmation that Q found him attractive, at least objectively, sent a spark of warmth flaring to life in Bond's chest. He tried to ignore it in favour of defensively pointing out, for principle's sake, "I'll have you know I haven't slept with anyone on my last  _ three  _ missions."

"Oh, my apologies," Q snorted, raising his hands in surrender as he shook his head. Shifting his attention back to his pint, he rolled his eyes, muttering, "How did you ever manage to survive?"

"Just barely," Bond returned with a sly grin, stretching his legs out just a bit, hiding another wince when his knee protested the movement. Q glanced over at him, managing a small smile in return before sitting back in his seat with a frustrated huff.

"Still," Q began, clearly not mollified by Bond's attempt to placate him and change the subject. He pursed his lips, squinting his eyes thoughtfully as he estimated, "Three missions? That's only about two months—" he snorted again, tilting his head "—Though, I'm sure that's a record for the infamous  _ James Bond." _

Again, Q wasn't necessarily wrong. It wasn't very common that Bond remained so abstinent during missions, usually more than happy to pass the time in foreign countries sipping martinis and returning to hotel rooms with beautiful locals.

Recently, his missions had been too intensive for him to twiddle his thumbs by whoring his way through Paris or Rio or wherever Mallory sent. His time spent in London, however, had been rather full of feminine company.

Not that Bond was going to admit it. Not now, anyway.

"Meanwhile, I haven't gotten laid in over six months," Q sullenly complained, eliciting an undignified snort from Moneypenny who raised a hand to her mouth in a futile attempt to disguise the sound. Folding his arms over his chest, Q capitulated, "So maybe I  _ am  _ unfuckable."

"If it's any consolation, if you weren't gay I would've jumped your bones ages ago," Moneypenny informed him as Bond belatedly digested the fact that Q apparently hadn't been shagged in over half a year. She sent Q a soft, supportive smile, reaching over to pat him on the arm.

"Thank you, Eve," Q said, sending her a gracious smile. His smile faltered somewhat as he continued on, "But, and not to sound ungrateful, I—"

"You'd rather hear it from someone you'd actually sleep with?" Moneypenny helpfully suggested with a warm, knowing smile as she squeezed his arm. Q nodded, sending her another grateful look.

Bond was less than grateful when Q turned to look back at him, hopeful curiosity lighting up his face. Bond's indecisive dread flared up again like a phoenix from the ashes as he helplessly stared back at Q.

His brain was suddenly a jumble of panicked thoughts, all of his usual composure and deadly focus ousted by one relatively simple question. He opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out, Q's brows rising expectantly.

He snapped his jaw shut with an audible click, swallowing awkwardly as Q continued staring at him. He was still scrambling for what to say when the front door of the pub opened, the chime of the bell accompanied by the sound of the raging wind outside.

"Bloody hell!" A gruff, gloriously familiar voice hissed as the front door slammed shut, the bell shrieking in protest. Bond heard a few heavy footsteps that progressively grew closer before a hand slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him flinch a bit, a jolt of pain shooting through his knee.

"It's worse than a bloody monsoon out there!" Alec whistled, squeezing Bond's shoulder in greeting. "And I thought the Philippines were bad."

"Welcome back to jolly old London," Bond greeted, peering up over his shoulder to see Alec standing at his side in a waterlogged Chesterfield coat, the charcoal grey wool darkened to a jet black. Alec's hair was a sopping wet mess, his left eye bruised and purple.

Sliding his foot off the extra chair, Bond motioned to it. Flashing a grateful grin at Alec, he encouraged, "Pull up a chair."

Alec did just that, awkwardly shrugging out of his coat while trying to avoid jostling his left arm which was encased in a sling. Draping his coat over the back of his chair and plopping down, Alec helped himself to Bond's pint, taking a long gulp.

The relief Bond felt was indescribable. Only a few days off his mission in Johannesburg following a previous mission in Antipolo in the middle of typhoon season, Bond hadn't even expected Alec to bother meeting them at the pub.

With a mild concussion and shoulder sprain, thus the sling, Alec would be out of commission for about three weeks, advised by Medical to rest as much as possible. Bond had assumed that after months of working rather intense missions, Alec would have been more than happy to lie around in bed for a few weeks.

Regardless, Bond was eternally grateful that he hadn't. The next round was most assuredly on him.

Setting his pilfered pint down, Alec wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced around the table. Quirking a brow at Q's crossed arms and rather somber expression, he cautiously ventured, "Have I missed something?"

"Q wants to know if he's fuckable or not," Moneypenny reported with a wicked grin as Q's face flushed the most delicate shade of pink at her comments, his cheeks darkening subtly. He looked adorably embarrassed, ducking his head a bit as he scratched the back of his head.

It was beyond endearing; the brash Quartermaster suddenly shy and demure. But Bond didn't have much time to bask in the sight as Alec set his good elbow on the table, leaning forward as he blurted, "Are you kidding me?"

"I know, it's stupid," Q said, rolling his eyes at himself with a rueful shake of his head. Daring a glance up at Alec, he smiled self-consciously and shrugged, explaining, "But it's been bothering me all night."

"Don't be ridiculous, Q," Alec chided, resting his chin in the cradle of his palm. Beaming at Q, he vehemently assured him, "If it wasn't for my bum shoulder, I'd carry you off to bed right now."

Any other time, Q would have rolled his eyes and brushed off Alec's obvious flirtation the way he usually did whenever any of the double-0s flirted with him, usually in an attempt to get new tech. He would have waved Alec off and shooed him out of Q Branch or his workshop, told him that he had work to do.

But as it was, tonight Q simply erupted into a huge grin, his eyes positively lighting up at Alec's declaration. Sincerity absolutely dripping from every word, Q softly answered, "Thank you, Alec."

"Anytime, love," Alec vowed, raising his stolen pint in a silent toast to Q who dipped his head and just kept smiling, bright and brilliant. Wrinkling his nose after taking another long sip of his pint, Alec mumbled, "Ugh, I need something stronger than this."

"Well, I'm getting myself a whisky," Q mentioned, already pushing himself to his feet, his own pint long finished and set aside. Gesturing towards the bar, he asked Alec, "Vodka with a twist? Smirnoff?"

"You know me so well," Alec returned, bringing his hand to his as he flashed Q a bright smile. He watched raptly as Q made his way to the bar, weaving around the drunk university students and a couple that was practically rutting together in the middle of the bar.

As Q ordered the drinks, Alec finished Bond's pint with a contented sigh, leaning back in his seat. Not that Bond minded terribly.

He was still too relieved that he hadn't been forced to Q's bloody question, spared the horribleness that would result from either answer he gave. Then again, he reminded himself, the night was still young. He might need something strong himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Sorry for the wait!

As much as Bond was used to being asked questions that were better left unanswered, he was even more accustomed to missions going completely tits up.

It was all part of being a double-0 agent. Getting shot, stabbed, kidnapped, tortured, and enduring a whole host of other trials and tribulations was part of the description.

And while it never really became that much easier to deal with, the pain more manageable but just as dreadful as ever, it was quite literally what all of the agents had signed up for. Bond included.

With that commitment to Queen and Country, came the tacit understanding that the missions he would be sent on were of the most dangerous variety and his life could easily be forfeit at any time. Especially when said missions were somehow utterly cocked up.

While no mission ever ran a hundred percent smoothly, circumstances always preventing such, there were some that could barely be considered missions after the amount of chaos that ensued.

There were various and sundry reasons how and why a mission might devolve into a bloody disaster; everything from impatience and pure recklessness on the part of a double-0 to blown covers to malfunctioning equipment. Not that the latter was much of an issue with Q at the forefront of tech design and construction.

His almost fanatical emphasis on extensive testing and development produced the most foolproof equipment possible, ensuring that malfunctions were far from an issue. MI6 was quite lucky that they had snatched Q up before some sort of criminal enterprise had.

Bond had heard through the MI6 grapevine, also known as one Eve Moneypenny, that other intelligence agencies — MI5, Mossad, Interpol, ASIS, even his friend Leiter at the CIA — had been trying to poach Q from MI6. Not that Q was going anywhere, loyal to a fault.

Barbaric as it may have been, Bond was rather possessive of his Quartermaster, thoroughly unwilling to lose the brilliant boffin to some other organisation. Aside from being embarrassingly arse over tea kettle for him, Bond rather enjoyed not having to worry about defective equipment on top of the usual stresses of a mission.

In the few years that Q had been Quartermaster, there had only been one single instance of a reported equipment malfunction during the course of an active mission. And no one would ever forget it.

Only a few short months after the events of Skyfall and the culmination of Silva's master plan, 003 had been sent on a mission to Asunción to eliminate a man who had known ties to Silva and was in possession of the names of more undercover MI6 agents. Hoping to prevent the needless deaths of more agents, 003 had been deployed to Paraguay, equipped with Q's latest gadget: a garrote wire artfully disguised as a lapel pin.

Made of the finest tempered high-carbon steel that Q could get his clever hands on, the garrote wire was hidden within the shaft of the stick lapel pin. The wire was virtually undetectable unless one already knew about its existence, released when the keeper at the bottom of the shaft was unscrewed.

It was a brilliant feat of deadly engineering, the envy of all of the MI6 agents, both double-0 designated and otherwise. 003 was the first to be issued one of the lapel pins for his assassination mission, much to the disappointment of the other double-0s who constantly vied for the newest tech.

After days upon days of reconnaissance in Paraguay followed by 003 finally managing to slip past the mark's personal guards, the agent had eventually found himself alone with the mark in a secluded hotel room. Everything was going exactly as planned until 003 had been unable to remove the garrote wire from the shaft of the lapel pin.

Q had calmly barked instructions at 003 over the comms, running a hand through his hair and visibly forcing himself not to completely berate the on-duty double-0, if the thoroughly amused account from Moneypenny had given Bond was to be believed. 003 had simply reiterated that the lapel pin wasn't working, hissing at Q under his breath as he pursued the mark who had futilely tried to escape.

Q Branch had been shocked into silence at the subtle accusation. Q's equipment had never malfunctioned before, not when it had already been issued out to agents on active missions.

Analysts and various other techs alike had paused in the middle of their own work, all eyes fixated on Q at the head of the room. With 003's comm feed on speaker, everyone in Q Branch had heard the startling implication.

In the end, 003 had resorted to executing the man with his sidearm, his custom-made Walther, delivering several shots to ensure that the man was dead. After the shooting, as he had relieved the dead man of the memory stick containing the MI6 agents' names, 003 had mumbled under his breath that at least  _ some  _ of Q's equipment actually worked.

With the mark dead and local authorities en route, alerted by the sound of gunshots and the mark's security team, Q had bitten his tongue and ordered 003 back to headquarters. Once 003 had returned to headquarters, he had stopped by Q Branch for his debriefing.

A crowd of other double-0 agents had anxiously gathered to watch, morbidly fascinated by the idea that one of Q's gadgets had failed to work. Half of the agents had taken bets on what Q's response would be, whether or not he would remain as calm as ever or if he would lose his composure; the other half was just there for the show.

And what a show it had been. 003 had been absolutely incensed, raising his voice and gesticulating wildly, coming dangerously close to actually yelling in Q's face. For about half an hour, he had ranted and raved and absolutely berated Q, until the rest of the double-0s, rather protective of their Quartermaster, had been fully prepared to punch 003 in the face.

Bond, personally, had been torn between wanting to box 003's ears in and wanting to wait for Q to do it himself.

But rather than stoop to 003's level, Q had simply taken the lapel pin from the agent, his expression carefully shuttered as he looked it over. With a simple anticlockwise twist of the keeper, he had unveiled the garrote wire with a silent flourish that had sent 003 scampering out of Q Branch with his tail tucked between his legs after Q informed him that he had been turning the keeper the wrong direction.

No one else had ever complained of an equipment malfunction since. Especially not 003. Not when there were a plethora of other reasons for why missions went straight to hell.

Like in Rio de Janeiro several months ago, where Bond had been sent to dismantle a despicable human trafficking organisation that had been abducting young girls from poverty-stricken neighbourhoods and sending them to Europe to be glorified sex slaves for rich, foreign businessmen. It had been a grueling, disgusting mission, the kind that made his skin crawl and tempted him to just kill everyone involved.

Q, who had been monitoring the mission and had been subjected to digging through the correspondence between the buyers and sellers of the poor abducted girls, had shared Bond's sentiment. More than once, Bond had heard Q mumbling under his breath about just setting the whole lot alight, claiming that anything else would be a waste of bullets.

But, remaining as professional as possible, they had continued on with the mission as planned.

Bond had been working with a local agent who had been investigating the trafficking organisation for months, a woman from the Brazilian Intelligence Agency with a stellar record and wicked right hook. She also had a mole by her left nipple, if Bond remembered correctly from the night they had spent in bed together, their air-conditioned hotel room an oasis compared to the oppressive humidity outside.

But she had a bit of a gambling problem, too. One which had resulted in a mountain of debt and a reprehensible deal being formed with the trafficking organisation.

Apparently, if she continued supplying them with young girls who wouldn't be especially missed, they would continue paying her an obscene amount of money that she would inevitably gamble away within a few days of receiving it.

MI6, and Bond, in particular, poking around hadn't exactly bode very well for her. So she had done what he imagined anyone else in her position would have and endeavoured to kill Bond herself.

Of course, she had failed miserably and Bond had been forced to take her life instead. It wasn't the first time that he'd had to kill a lover, nor was it the first time that he had been betrayed while on a mission.

But while traitors and moles and double agents were almost always a concern during the course of a mission, an even bigger concern was information. Namely, inaccurate, incorrect intel that put entire missions at stake.

Which is exactly how his latest mission in Cairo had become a bloody disaster.

What had started as an investigation into a group of British expatriates and their wives living in the Egyptian capital — the men suspected of having ties to a radical terrorist organisation in the area — had quickly turned into a shootout at a popular nightclub followed by a car chase through the streets of Cairo.

A week after the night at the pub, Q's question still echoing in Bond's head, Medical had officially cleared him for active duty, his knee healing remarkably well. Medical's ruling came just in time for Mallory to assign him a new mission.

Q had given him a succinct briefing before he had left for Egypt, equipping him with an earpiece, a Walther coded to his palm print, and a watch equipped with GPS tracking in case of any potential emergencies. As Bond had drooled over the watch, a Pinion Axis II Black with a steel case and genuine leather strap, Q had explained that Bond was essentially being sent to earn the men's trust and wring out as much information as he possibly could from them.

Preliminary research showed that the men in the group were mostly retired MI5 agents, a few retired security specialists and one former firefighter also among their ranks, who had moved to Egypt to live out their golden years in an exotic locale. Recent bank account activity from the men had been flagged as suspicious, large sums of money suddenly and inexplicably appearing in a few of the men's accounts.

Initially, a non-double-0 field agent had been assigned to the mission, sent to monitor the men for several weeks and report their activities. Bond had been sent in later when one of the field agent's daily reports had indicated that one of the marks had been in contact with a confirmed member of a violent terrorist organisation.

But the information the field agent had reported had been woefully inaccurate. Rather than only one or two of the marks having ties to terrorists, all of them were intimately acquainted with the terror group that was planning a massive attack on London, several targets already selected.

Bond had been in Cairo for several rather uneventful days when he had been informed of the discrepancy in the information he had originally been supplied with. Under the guise of a fellow expatriate, a businessman by the name of Daniel Fleming with a bit of wanderlust and a taste for  _ hawawshi, _ Bond had managed to somewhat infiltrate the group of marks, all of whom had welcomed him with open arms.

One of the men's wives had also welcomed him with open legs.

From the moment Bond had started up a casual conversation with her husband at a bar, she had been flashing him seductive grins and suggestive flashes of her bare breasts beneath the flimsy cover of her almost entirely sheer sundress. The pattern of inviting touches and lingering glances had persisted throughout parties and dinners and drinks at resort bars.

One evening at dinner, she had even gone so far as to very discreetly stuff her knickers into his jacket pocket.

Bored and lonely and much too young for her husband, she had been an apple ripe for the picking, a perfect opportunity to peek into her husband's private dealings. And from the hints she had been hurling at him since his arrival, she wasn't at all adverse.

So, like the gentleman that Bond was, while on a night with all of the men and their wives, he had fucked her in the bathroom of the nightclub.

Well, more accurately, he had simply fingered her to completion with the skirt of her dress hiked up around her thighs as she had buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her moans. It wasn't the most romantic shag, sex in the bathroom of a nightclub not the most ideal locale for a seduction, but it had worked in a pinch.

Afterwards, while helping her fix her heavy makeup — and internally wincing at the fact that poor Q had been forced to listen to the unceremonious romp, regulations forbidding the Quartermaster from closing the line of communication while overseeing a mission — Bond had carefully pressed her for details about her husband's business.

After practically singing his praises, babbling on about what a selfless lover he was, so unlike her husband, she had made a few offhand, and rather racist, comments about the men that her husband was currently doing business with. As she touched up her lipstick, a substantial amount smeared on Bond's pocket square which he re-folded before tucking back into his breast pocket, she had mentioned a local café where they usually met.

Leaving her to finish tidying her hair and trying to make it appear as though she hadn't just been thoroughly shagged by a man who was decidedly not her husband, Bond had rinsed his hands and slipped out of the bathroom, starting to make his way back to the table where the rest of the expats were waiting.

Q's voice in his ear, uncharacteristically frantic, had made him pause, making a quick detour over to the bar and away from the crowded dance floor and gigantic speakers in order to hear Q better. Q had urgently instructed him to leave the club, explaining that he had uncovered connections between  _ all  _ of the men and the terrorist organisation.

Bond had warily glanced around the table, his eyes touching on all of the exits and windows in search of an escape route if needed. While he casually looked around, smiling politely at a group of pretty women at the bar who were sending him rather appreciative looks, Q additionally, and quite insistently, informed him that the woman he had just brought off in the bathroom had just sent her husband a text message simply claiming, _ ‘I think Dan's onto you'. _

Barely a moment later, Bond had vaulted over the bar to take cover from the barrage of bullets courtesy of the six men he had been drinking and laughing with not fifteen minutes earlier. Hiding behind the thick wood and metal of the bar, Bond had carefully listened to Q's precise instructions with every intention of doing almost exactly as his Quartermaster said.

Before he could get to the airport and rush back to London, officially being pulled from the mission now that his cover had been shot to bits, he had to get out of the bloody nightclub.

His tie and lipstick-stained pocket square had made suitable enough wicks for a few hastily improvised Molotov cocktails which he had promptly lobbed over the bar in the general direction of his assailants, lighting them with the pen lighter Q had given him for a different mission a few months prior, having kept it for just such an occasion.

The deadly cocktails hit their mark with a satisfying crash of glass and the subsequent  _ whoosh  _ of the alcohol igniting, partially muffled by the sound of screaming as the other clubgoers fled. But the cocktails hadn't completely deterred all of the marks, the rain of bullets continuing without hesitation. Cursing under his breath, Bond had scrambled for another way to stall them.

Q's latest crowning achievement, flash-ang grenades cleverly disguised as cufflinks, had been a godsend. They had been hurled over the bar next, the bright flash and accompanying shock wave giving Bond enough time to flee the nightclub.

Against his better judgement, he had taken an impulsive look backward on his way out, surveying the damage done. The marks that hadn't been reduced to burning corpses had been stumbling over their own feet and rubbing their eyes, Q's grenades working perfectly.

The club itself had been completely destroyed. The fire had begun to spread, setting off smoke alarms as the flames advanced towards the walls. Bullet holes had demolished the bar, dotting the walls and the floor. Innocent civilians turned collateral damage littered the dance floor as the music continued pumping out of the out of the large speakers.

The group of women who had been giving him sly once-overs had laid in pools of blood and broken glass, their once bright eyes dead and glazed over. Their pretty cocktail dresses were soaked through with crimson blood, their shiny jewellery suddenly as lifeless as their eyes.

Shaking himself, Bond had continued on his way, rushing out into the car park. Needing to escape as quickly as possible from the situation that he was dreadfully unprepared for, making a mental note to kick the inadequate field agent's arse, Bond had broken into and hotwired the first car he found; a Ferrari 812 Superfast in the gaudiest shade of yellow he had ever seen.

Q had been rather critical of Bond's choice in escape vehicles, his humour perfectly intact despite the intense situation. Snorting, Q had muttered over the line, "Did you really have to pick the most conspicuous car in Cairo?"

"Of course," Bond had quipped with a huff of unexpected laughter as he carefully stripped the necessary wires. Sparking the starter wire, he had smirked to himself and smugly remarked, "Have to escape in style, don't I?"

Q had just sighed but Bond could perfectly envision the inevitable roll of those pretty grey-green eyes. The mere thought put a smile on his face that was quickly wiped away when he noticed with marked unease that the marks were stumbling out of the smouldering nightclub and towards their own cars, ready to pursue him.

Speeding through the streets of Cairo, Bond had left it up to Q to guide him to safety, certain that Q had already hacked into the streetlight system of the capital. Sure enough, Bond was able to drive through the busy heart of Cairo without getting a single red light.

Unfortunately, his pursuers didn't seem to be very concerned about traffic laws. They simply sped through the intersections in their own Ferraris and Porsches, completely uncaring about the other cars, and even the odd pedestrians, they hit.

Driving North, Bond had led his pursuers away from the city, hoping to avoid any more collateral damage. He had hoped to outrun the marks before looping back around to the airport, but his plan had been foiled by one of the bastards getting close enough to nudge his left rear tire and send him spinning out of control.

The car had lurched to the side of the road, the abrupt change in direction sending the Ferrari rolling over in a mess of metal and aluminium. Bond had cursed under his breath, ducking his head and grabbing a hold of the seat belt to keep himself anchored in his seat as the windows shattered and the sound of screeching metal against pavement filled the humid night air.

Bond had been able to hear Q over the din of the crash, ordering his minions about and cursing himself, reciting some rather colourful swears that put some of the more vulgar phrases Bond had learned while in the Navy to shame. As the wreckage of the Ferrari skidded to a stop, Bond had tried to respond to Q to assure him that he was perfectly alright, having heard the boffin repeatedly call his name, repeating Q's name a few times.

But Q never responded. Bond had belatedly realised that his earpiece had fallen out during the roll, amongst the wreck.

Contact with Q Branch lost, Bond had carefully extricated himself from the tangle of the seatbelt. With the body of the car warped and mangled, moving about was rather precarious, especially when the strap of his watch became snagged on a sharp bit of metal.

Desperate, Bond had simply yanked his hand free, muttering an apology to Q under his breath as the watch strap tore, sending the brilliant piece of equipment plummeting into the dark abyss of the mutilated car. He had then managed to wriggle his way out of the ruins of the vehicle, keeping a hand on the Walther in his shoulder holster as he watched the marks park their cars and begin stalking towards him.

Bond had quickly calculated the odds. He had eight bullets, seven in the magazine and one in the breech, with nine assailants, several of the men's wives joining the assault, and over seventy metres between himself and the marks.

His Walther wasn't much good at such a distance, even less so considering the tumble that he had taken, while his pursuers were equipped with semi-automatic rifles. Frustrated, Bond had tilted his head to the side to spit on the ground, where he noticed a stream of petrol sluggishly leaking from the Ferrari's tank that must have been punctured during the roll.

Utter relief had warred with his natural skepticism as he had slowly walked backwards, luring his pursuers closer as he reached his pocket to retrieve his pen lighter again, eternally grateful that it had remained in his pocket during the crash.

Once the marks had come close enough, falling into Bond's clutches like flies to a spider's web, Bond had clicked the pen, a small flame suddenly flaring to life. He had expertly tossed it in the puddle of petrol, already turning to run as his pursuers were engulfed in a bloody spectacular explosion.

With the marks eliminated, Bond cautiously investigating the ruins of the smouldering wreckage to ensure that they were all dead, and communications with Q Branch down, Bond had found himself stranded on a remote road in the Sahara, the temperature quickly plummeting as it grew darker.

Fortunately, it wasn't his first time in such dire straits and he was perfectly able to find his way back into the city. Likewise, he had managed to relieve someone of their motorcycle in order to make his rush to the airport less strenuous.

Ignoring the odd looks various security guards and attendants sent him, understandably wary about the sudden appearance of a white man in a tattered, dusty, and bloody grey suit, Bond had procured a ticket for the next flight back to London. It may or may not have involved him bribing a few officials so that they would look the other way.

He boarded the flight at seven fifty, escorted by an air hostess with pretty blue eyes whom Bond would have flirted with had he not been so exhausted. After the day he'd had, he wasn't very eager to indulge in female company.

During the course of the flight, sequestered in first class with a handful of businessmen and women absorbed in their books and magazines, Bond had tidied himself as much as possible in the cramped bathroom. He had a relatively shallow cut on his left cheek, just a few scant centimetres below his eye, that was already starting to bruise; a smattering of lacerations and bruising along the right side of the abdomen; and a slight ache in his knee.

Using the plane's first aid kit, he had treated his injuries to the best of his ability given his exhaustion and the flight's intermittent turbulence. A few paracetamol tablets and a glass of piss-poor Scotch later, Bond had deemed himself sufficiently patched up.

He had spent the rest of the flight splitting his time between letting himself relax enough to sleep a titch and suspiciously examining the other passengers of the flight, purely out of habit, his paranoia alive and well. He figured it was warranted after he traded an orgasm for an attempt on his life.

When his flight finally touched down at Heathrow, rousing Bond from a light doze, he couldn't be on his way quick enough. His departure was made infinitely swifter by the fact that he had no luggage.

It was raining, in true London fashion, a heavy downpour that instantly made Bond feel at home after spending a week in the sweltering heat of northern Africa. Speaking of home, in spite of how exhausted he was, his body aching and his knee still throbbing a bit, Bond was in no real hurry to return there.

Not to his lonely flat in Chelsea with its sterile white walls and deafening silence and cold white sheets. Even with his flat's large bed with its soft mattress and down pillows, he had somewhere better to be. Namely, Q's flat, which he made a beeline to the moment he left the airport.

It wasn't a very long trip to Q's, just an hour or so ride on the Tube from Heathrow to Primrose Hill where Q's flat was nestled beside Regent's Park and the London Zoo, taking Terminal 4 to St. John's Wood, with a few connecting stops in between. Bloodied and bruised and rather low on cash, his wallet full of Egyptian pounds and a few rupees from his mission to Jaipur, he wasn't the most ideal cab passenger, and while he would rather avoid taking the Tube, he didn't relish the thought of a four hour walk in the rain to Q's flat.

Bond had first been to Q's flat shortly after he had worked his third mission under the direction of the newly appointed Quartermaster. His curiosity about the brilliant man in thick half-rimmed specs and painfully unstylish cardigans had led him to carefully follow him home like a stray cat who had developed an affinity for the person who threw him bits of food every so often.

He had dutifully followed Q out of headquarters and over Vauxhall Bridge into Kennington where the Quartermaster had taken an extremely convoluted route that had included suffering through rush hour on the Tube and a jog through several alleyways in South Lambeth. Q had then led him back over the Chelsea Bridge and through Kensington and Marylebone before disappearing into the bloody zoo where Bond had only just barely been able to keep track of him.

Throughout Q's use of misdirection and backtracking, Bond had nearly lost him completely a number of times, the Quartermaster more elusive than nearly any other mark that Bond had ever pursued. If he hadn't been so fascinated by Q, Bond probably would have just given up.

But as it was, Bond was hopelessly intrigued and had followed Q until they had arrived at a quaint row of flats on Ormonde Terrace. And it was there that Q had quite thoroughly shocked him by quite casually quipping, "Well done, 007. You managed to keep up."

With that, Q had climbed up the front steps and let himself into his building, flashing Bond a quick smile over his shoulder as he disappeared inside. A few moments later, lights had flickered to life in a flat on the first floor.

Bond had been flabbergasted. Then utterly charmed.

After the first visit to Q's flat, Bond had returned to darken Q's door after a mission in Ireland had resulted in him being battered and bloodied and limping to Q's flat rather than dragging himself to Medical. Q, who had been busy monitoring a different double-0 agent's mission in Bangkok, had returned home to find Bond bleeding out on the front steps of his building.

Two hours and a generous amount of eye-rolling courtesy of Q later, Bond had been carefully bandaged and sutured and properly medicated. Q was apparently rather good with a needle and surgical thread, much better than when Bond attempted to stitch himself up with dental floss.

Grumbling about reckless agents and their almost pathological avoidance of Medical, Q had guided Bond over to the sofa, a Lawson with light grey cushions and dark wooden legs that matched the flooring throughout the flat. It was there that he had promptly been hounded by Q's cats.

Émilie, a sleek blue point Siamese with wide steely blue eyes, had brazenly helped to Bond's lap without so much as a by your leave. She had plopped down on his thighs and stretched the very second Bond had sat down on the sofa, letting out a thunderous purr that had actually startled him.

Bond had winced every time she dug her wickedly sharp claws into his leg as she kneaded him, not bothering to shoo her away. Not under Q's watchful eye.

Félicette, a fluffy black and white Manx — "She’s a Cymric," Q had informed him, though Bond had no idea what the bloody hell that meant — had been far more reserved. She at squinted suspiciously at Bond from her perch on the arm of the sofa, her sage green eyes eerily reminiscent of Q's as she glared at him.

By the end of the night, she had warmed to him enough to venture closer, taking a tentative seat beside him, eyes still narrowed. She had leaned in to investigate, sniffing at his shoulder, only to recoil and flee at the sharp scent of antiseptic.

Q had begrudgingly decided to cook dinner despite the late hour, magnanimously offering Bond a plate. Q was also apparently a rather good cook, serving an excellent spaghetti bolognese that he paired with an absolutely dreadful wine.

Q had taken a seat in an upholstered wingback armchair by the couch to eat, turning the telly on in time for an old rerun of  _ A Bit of Fry and Laurie, _ smiling softly to himself at the familiar banter. Félicette, fleeing from the couch, had curled up in his lap instead, occasionally trying to steal bits of meat and pasta from Q's plate.

Bond and Q had talked a bit while they ate, Q complaining about 0010 and Bond complaining about Ireland, both of them complaining about Mallory. Between complaints, Bond had presented Q with the souvenir he had gotten him in Dublin; a decorative bodhrán which Q had accepted with a beleaguered sigh and a shake of his head.

After finishing his plate, Q had retired for the evening, setting the dishes in the kitchen sink to soak overnight. He had fetched a few pillows and a warm blanket from his bedroom to kit out the sofa for sleep, welcoming Bond to stay the night.

After checking Bond's bandages again, Q had bid him goodnight and returned to his bedroom, clicking his tongue to summon his cats. Both had hurried after Q as fast as they could, their little paws pounding on the hardwood floors.

Looking back, that was the day that Bond forced himself to admit that he was becoming rather smitten with his new Quartermaster. His revelation had only been reinforced when he had woken up the next morning to a steaming cup of coffee made just the way he liked it and a plate of eggs and toast, Émilie curled up on top of his knees.

Following that first time, Bond had been an occasional guest of both Q and his cats, usually when he was in need of medical assistance or took it upon himself to frogmarch Q home when he had been working too long. By now, Bond knew all of the various routes to Q's flat by heart.

After getting off the Tube at St. John's Wood, Bond hurried to Q's flat, rushing through the cold rain with his tattered suit jacket pulled up to cover his head. He slipped into Q's building, climbing the stairs to the first floor where he let himself into Q's flat with the specialised keycard Q had given him after he had broken in one too many, setting off the klaxons that Q had in case of any compromise to his flat, summoning a squad of MI6 agents to Ormonde Terrace.

Bond confirmed his identity by punching in a four digit code on the keypad panel before pressing his thumb against the biometric scanner disguised as a keyhole. He then swiped his keycard, the door finally unlocking with a soft mechanical chime.

Émilie greeted him with a loud trill, bouncing over to him from where she had been curled up by the gas fireplace, her slim tail held straight up in the air. She weaved between his legs as she purred, butting her head against his shins and nearly tripping him as he closed the door behind himself.

Félicette remained rather indifferent, curled up on the wingback armchair with her favourite toy, a silver spaceship filled with catnip and adorned with red and orange feathers. She barely spared a glance up at him as he kicked off his shoes by the door.

Straightening up, the joints in his back cracking loudly, Bond made his way to the kitchen, Émilie following close behind. He helped himself to a bottle of Heineken from Q's refrigerator.

He brought his pilfered beer with him as he wandered back into the sitting room where he wandered over to the sofa, taking a seat with a low groan. Again, Félicette didn't bother looking at him as he passed.

Émilie, however, eagerly followed him. She leapt up onto the sofa, sniffing at Bond's pockets with a small, inquisitive chirp.

"Sorry, Ém," Bond mumbled, using the nickname Q often referred to the Siamese by, raising his free hand to stroke Émilie under her chin, earning him a loud purr that drowned out the silence of the flat. Her bright eyes slid shut as he continued scratching her, apologising, "No treats tonight."

For either the cats or their owner. Bond had been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about picking Q up yet another souvenir. It was a shame, he was rather sure that Q would appreciate a statue of  _ Bast  _ or maybe  _ Sekhmet, _ to add to his collection of gifts from the double-0s which he kept on his large bookshelf on the other end of the flat, in the part of the large sitting room he used as a makeshift library.

Bond didn't bother turning the telly on, instead leaning back and stretching his legs out. Sipping his beer, he tipped his head to the side to watch the rain through the sliding glass door that led onto the small balcony.

After a bit, Émilie drifted off to sleep, her head growing heavy against his palm as he continued scratching her. Bond was tempted to do the same, utterly exhausted.

But he forced himself to stay awake, feeling like a lovesick pup for how much he wanted to see Q. He told himself it was just because he wanted to check-in with his Quartermaster, to inform MI6 that he wasn't dead before they sold off his flat again.

But as good as he was at lying, he had never been very good at lying to himself. So, as he listened to the soothing patter of the rain, he let himself relax a bit as he waited for Q to get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no sex in this chapter, sorry about that! And no appearance from Q, yet. The background about the mission ended up waaaay longer than I anticipated so I'm splitting the chapter.  
> Q's cats are named after Émilie du Châtelet, a French philosopher, mathematician, physicist and author; and Félicette, the first cat launched into space.  
> And if you're curious about what Q's flat looks like, I actually used home designer to program to design it: [Q's flat](https://imgur.com/a/dIhaj4R)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it took so long for another chapter! And sorry in advance because the next chapter might take even longer! But I hope you enjoy it!

It was still raining when Bond woke up.

He wouldn't have expected anything else. The rain that had greeted him upon his return to England was the kind that settled, that continued for days if not weeks.

It was one of the things he didn't particularly miss while on-mission. Along with his nosy neighbours who were entirely too invested in figuring out what he did for a living and Mallory's atrocious new aftershave.

Q's flat was still dark, Bond not bothering enough to turn on any lights when he had arrived earlier, full of watery shadows and tenebrous corners where anyone could be lurking. Somewhere in the flat one of the cats, probably Émilie, let out a soft meow.

It took Bond an embarrassingly long time to realise what had woken him up; the sound of the front door opening then closing and something heavy hitting the floor with a dull thud. Kicking himself for having fallen asleep, Bond was immediately on high alert, his hand instinctively going to his Walther in its holster.

His head was suddenly filled with progressively horrendous scenarios that chilled him down to the marrow. Had someone broken in? No, if someone had even attempted to break in, ear-splitting klaxons capable of waking the dead would sound, alerting both local authorities and a veritable army of MI6 agents.

Had someone discovered Q's identity somehow? Had they snatched him on the Tube and coerced him into allowing them access to his flat? Had the loud thud been the sound of Q's broken, battered, incapacitated body being tossed aside?

With every awful paranoid thought, every worsening scenario that flashed within his mind's eye, Bond's resolve grew as his hand tightened on the grip of his Walther. Three bright green dots shone back at him.

The only thing that stopped him from actually drawing his weapon was the familiar timbre of Q's voice, soft and sweet and almost sing-song, as he happily greeted his cats.

The mere sound instantly calmed Bond, all of the tension leaving his body as he relaxed his hold on his Walther. It assured him that he was in no immediate danger, that Q was simply returning home from work and talking to his cats, that the only thing he had to fear was the inevitable upbraiding from Q due to the loss and damage of his equipment.

Though, to Bond's credit, he  _ had  _ brought the Walther back completely intact, bullets and all. And it wasn't as though Q could expect him to return the flash-bang grenade cufflinks after he had used them.

Leaning back on the sofa, Bond tilted his head to the side to look over at the front door where Q was shrugging out of his drab anorak, the same one that he had been wearing when he had introduced himself to Bond at the National Gallery. As Q slipped the hood of the anorak off of his head, Bond caught a glimpse of his dark hair, more wavy than usual from the rain and disheveled from his habit of running his fingers through it.

With his back turned to Bond as he hung up his coat, Q remained blissfully oblivious to the agent's presence. Bond took the opportunity to look Q over, re-familiarising himself with the welcome sight of his Quartermaster in the dim light that shone through the sliding glass door from a nearby street lamp.

He was dressed just as appalling as ever — and, quite honestly, Bond probably would have been disappointed if he hadn't been — in a deep navy blue cardigan with brown suede elbow patches and grey windowpane trousers. Bond could see a hint of the white collar of a shirt, though he couldn't quite discern the pattern, and a flash of deep maroon, probably a tie.

It was a rather endearing mix of fabrics and colours and patterns. Bond wouldn't have expected anything less. Nor would he expect anything less than the way Q that cooed at Émilie and Félicette who were rubbing their cheeks against his shins, chattering away with excited little tweets.

"Yes, I know, darlings. Daddy's been gone too long," Q crooned apologetically as he set his anorak on a hook by the door, the dark olive nylon streaked with rain. He sighed deeply, tipping his head down to regard his cats who were practically climbing over one another to vie for his attention, and very softly murmured, "It's been a...long day."

There was something in his voice, a deep weariness that far exceeded his usual post-mission exhaustion that immediately caught Bond's interest. His interest was momentarily shoved to the wayside as he continued watching Q.

Bending down, in the process giving Bond quite a lovely view of his even more lovely arse in those dreadful trousers, Q stroked a hand over Émilie's head before scooping Félicette into his arms. He buried his face in the fluffy white fur at her throat for a long moment before raising his head and musing aloud, "How about wet food for dinner, yeah? Will that make it all better?"

Nodding decisively to himself, Q turned to walk further into his flat, reaching behind himself to finally flick on the sitting room lights. His eyes widened rather comically behind the thick, water-speckled lenses of his glasses when he noticed Bond sitting on the sofa.

Q blinked a few times, pausing mid-step with Félicette still cradled gently in his arms. After a long moment of silence, both men simply staring at one another, Q quietly greeted, "Oh, good. You're not dead."

"Don't sound so disappointed, Q," Bond chided, unable to keep himself from sending Q an amused grin. He shifted slightly on the sofa until he was more comfortable, tightening his grip on the bottle of beer that he had miraculously managed not to drop in his sleep and subsequent half-awake panic.

Q just rolled his eyes, taking a few steps further into the sitting room towards the sofa to set a suddenly unhappy Félicette down. She took a seat next to a decorative throw pillow, an ugly as sin souvenir from 0012's mission in bloody Texas several months prior, and sent Bond a chilling glare, apparently blaming him for the fact that she was no longer being coddled.

Q stroked a hand down Félicette's back, raking his long fingers through her long fur. His gentle petting seemed to placate her a titch until she closed her eyes and let out a purr loud enough to rival the volume of the rain outside.

"It's more paperwork for me if you die," Q informed him with a negligent shrug, moving to take a seat on the arm of the sofa. Émilie loyally followed him, letting out an excited trill as she clambered up onto the sofa after Q. He wrinkled his nose as he elaborated, "Manual paperwork, too. I hate it. So, I suppose thanks are in order."

Bond wasn't the least bit surprised by Q's clear disdain for what he was sure the younger man deemed as an antiquated method of doing paperwork. His smile growing larger at the look of pure annoyance on Q's face, Bond remarked, "Well you know me, Q. I live to serve."

"Serve as a pain in my arse," Q muttered, shaking his head as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. And if that didn't send both Bond's mind and blood racing, various scenarios in which he and Q's arse could become better acquainted flashing through his mind like a tortuous slideshow of what could never be.

But rather than voice any of said thoughts aloud, not very eager for a thrashing after the night he'd had, Bond raised his bottle of beer in a mock salute before taking a sip. He winced. His beer was piss-warm, gone room temperature while he had slept, which prompted him to ask, "What time is it?"

"S'about half five," Q answered, glancing up at Bond over the thick rim of his glasses. His fingers flew over the touchscreen of his phone with the same ease and precision as when he manned the helm in Q Branch, huddled over his computer in what had to be a rather uncomfortable hunch.

He was clearly texting or emailing someone, typing too much to just be scrolling or swiping through something. Bond assumed he was texting Mallory, probably informing him that they wouldn't be adding Bond's name to the memorial wall MI6 still maintained at Vauxhall just yet. Which was for the best, MI6 directors weren't the best at writing obituaries.

Bond hummed to himself at Q's last comment. He had managed to sleep maybe three hours, about the same amount as he usually did while on-mission. He had no doubt that Émilie, the clingy little thing, had probably been perched on his lap the entire time until Q came home, while Félicette, the grumpy beast, had probably continued glaring at him.

"How badly are you injured?" Q asked conversationally as he set his phone aside on the side table beside the sofa, next to a stack of well-worn science fiction books and an Earl Grey scented candle that Alec had gotten him during a mission in Norwich. Rising from his seat on the arm of the sofa, Q moved to stand in front of Bond, squinting critically at him as he looked him up and down, from his mostly dry hair to his dirty left sock where a large hole revealed his big toe.

Q canted his head to the side as he visually examined Bond's face, boldly reaching out to grab Bond's chin and tilt his head from side to side to better view his wounds. Bond rolled his eyes, letting Q manhandle him to his heart's content, much too tired to put up a fight.

He winced a bit when Q reached up with his thumb to very gently prod at the small laceration on Bond's left cheek, carefully dragging the pad of his thumb around the edges of the jagged cut. His face was close to Bond's, intimately so as he stooped down for a better look, close enough that if Bond had a mind to, he could lean forward a few scant centimetres and kiss him.

Rather than do that, though he was sorely, sorely tempted, Bond took the opportunity to just look at Q. At the dark circles forming under his bright eyes, at the tiny freckle on the tip of his nose, the small maroon anchors on his shirt, the deep pink of his absurdly distracting lips that called to him like a siren luring him to what could be paradise or perdition.

Q hummed to himself as he carefully poked at the bruised cut, the very tip of his tongue poking out in concentration just to torture Bond even further. Finishing his examination, he moved his hand to gently pat Bond on his uninjured cheek as he assured the agent, "Just a scratch. Doesn't look like they'll be any permanent damage to your pretty face."

"I always knew you thought I was pretty," Bond drawled, batting his eyelashes at Q rather coquettishly. It was Q's turn to roll his eyes, though Bond could see the way that his cheeks pinkened, so easily embarrassed by flirting at times. Bond could only imagine what Q's face looked like when he had to monitor honeypot missions.

"Pretty punchable," Q returned breezily as he pulled a small torch out of the pocket of his cardigan, because, of course, he always carried one on his person. The nerd.

Without much preamble, he abruptly shone the torch in Bond's eyes. He flicked the light between Bond's eyes, carefully monitoring the dilation of his pupils.

Bond resigned himself to letting Q finish his examination until, seemingly satisfied, he turned the torch off and tucked it back into his pocket. Though apparently not totally satisfied, Q held up his index finger and waved it to and fro in front of Bond's eyes, clearly expecting him to follow the movement.

"I don't have a bloody concussion," Bond groused even as he dutifully followed the movement of Q's finger. Q didn't seem very convinced, continuing to move his finger until Bond swatted at it and obediently recited, "My name is Commander James Andrew Bond; codename 007. I was born Saturday, November 11th, 1972 at Belford Hospital in Fort William, Scotland. I'm forty two years old, type 0-negative, and have a slight ragweed allergy. Must I really go on?"

Q shook his head, dropping his hand back to his side before apparently having second thoughts and moving his hand to cup the back of Bond's head. Running his fingers over Bond's scalp — Bond forced himself not to react to the fact that Q was essentially  _ petting  _ him — Q asked, "No headaches? Dizziness? Confusion? Loss of consciousness?"

"No, Q. I'm fine," Bond insisted with an annoyed huff, physically restraining himself from leaning into Q's touch. It seemed to be enough for Q who lowered his hand, moving it to stroke a hand down Félicette's back, the wee beastie venturing close enough to curl up by Bond's hip.

A traitorous voice in the back of Bond's head whined about the loss of Q's hand on him. Whined that maybe if he had lied about having symptoms, Q might touch him again. Bloody hell, he was pathetic.

"I'll put the kettle on, then," Q said as he turned to head towards the kitchen, despite knowing full well that Bond despised tea. Émilie trailed after Q like a second shadow, letting out a soft startled mewl when he abruptly stopped.

Without warning, Q spun on his heel and hurled something at Bond. Quickly tightening his grip on his bottle of beer, Bond fumbled to dodge whatever the hell it was.

It was a cat toy, he realised, one of Émilie's preferred light-up plastic balls. It bounced off the wall behind him and rolled down to settle on his lap, the lights inside the purple plastic ball flashing blue and purple.

Bond picked up the toy, raising an unamused brow. Lifting his head, he sent Q an incredulous look. "Really, Q? Testing my reflexes? With a cat toy?"

"And your coordination," Q reported with a shrug, not looking the slightest bit contrite. Smiling as Émilie raced back over to the sofa to retrieve her toy from Bond's hand, Q claimed, "Just trying to be thorough. The look on your face was absolutely worth it."

With that, Q turned and continued on his way to the kitchen. As he made a beeline to the kettle waiting for him by the cooker, he called over his shoulder, "Feel free to take a shower, if you'd like. I think I have some spare clothes that might fit you."

Bond was extremely grateful for the invitation, the walk in the rain to Q's flat not enough to fully wash off all of the dust and blood and dried sweat of Cairo. Scratching Émilie behind the ear, earning him a loud purr, Bond rose from the sofa, taking his warm beer with him as he followed Q to the kitchen.

He took the liberty of pouring it down the drain before tossing the empty bottle into Q's rubbish bin as Q filled the kettle and fiddled with the hob, Émilie off somewhere playing with her toy. Q shook his head with a cluck of his tongue, admonishing, "Waste of good beer."

"I'll buy you more," Bond promised as Q retrieved two tins of wet cat food from on top of the refrigerator, efficiently opening the tins and dumping the contents onto two saucers that he set on the floor for his darlings. Both of whom came running into the kitchen at the heralding sound of the can opener, toys and comfy sofas instantly forgotten.

Bond flashed Q a bright grin as the cats excitedly tucked into their decadent meal, wet food a rare treat reserved for special occasions. Leaning against the side of the refrigerator as he wondered when he had started noticing things about the cats' diets, Bond continued, "To make up for the fact that I failed to bring you back a gift."

"No gift, and yet you darken my door nonetheless," Q scolded, rolling his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening as Bond walked down the short hallway to the loo. Smiling to himself at Q's cheeky response, Bond closed the door behind himself to keep any curious felines out.

He stripped quickly, wrinkling his nose at the sorry state of his unsalvageable black suit, the linen ripped and shredded from the crash and still a bit wet from the rain, warranting yet another trip to his tailor on Savile Row. MI6 agents alone kept most of the high-end tailors in the city in business.

Removing his shoulder holster, he carefully hung it on the edge of the towel rack, keeping his weapon close just in case he needed it. Old habits died hard.

He looked over the cuts and bruises on his abdomen in the mirror, the bruises already dark and purpled, the cuts still smarting a bit. Fortunately, none of the lacerations were large enough or severe enough to require stitches, just a bit of rest and cleaning.

He indulged in the hottest shower he could stand, nearly scalding himself as he stepped into the tub and under the spray. The instant the warm water touched his skin, he let out an appreciative groan. And he'd thought  _ his  _ flat had good water pressure.

He briefly wondered if Q had tinkered with the shower himself to achieve the heavenly water pressure. If so, Bond would have to enlist Q's services for his own flat.

Luxuriating in the steamy water, Bond scrubbed himself clean with a flannel and some of Q's Pecksniff body wash, the boffin apparently having rather good taste in toiletries. Something dark and primitive and hatefully embarrassing deep inside of him preened at the thought of smelling like Q.

Bond turned the spray ice cold for a moment to discourage any more thoughts like that.

Turning the water warm again, he carefully rinsed out the handful of scratches on his side, the slight twinge of pain negligible when compared to the other injuries he had accumulated throughout his career as a double-0 agent. The water ran pink and soapy as it circled the drain, muddied by dirt and dust.

After scrubbing the dust out of his hair and washing behind his ears, Bond deemed himself clean enough, shutting off the shower taps and stepping out of the tub. He patted himself dry with one of the fluffy white towels hanging on the rack by the shower, carefully dabbing at his side.

Once dry, he wrapped the towel around his hips, bending down to rifle through the cabinet under the bathroom sink in search of a spare toothbrush. He still had the taste of blood and horrible Scotch lingering on his tongue from the flight back to London.

He found several rolls of toilet paper, a few bottles of body wash and shampoo, and, surprisingly enough, a straight razor. There were a few more intriguing things as well, but no spare toothbrush.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted his fruitless search, making him jolt and nearly brain himself on the edge of the kitchen sink. Q's voice sounded from the other side of the door a moment later, inquiring, "Are you decent?"

Dozens of responses raced through Bond's head, each one more lewd and flirtatious than the last until they bordered on crude. He bit his tongue, stalwartly resisting the urge to make a crass comment, before he called back to Q, "Yes!"

The door opened a second later, Q poking his head in with a small stack of clothes held in his arms. He had dried off his glasses and loosened his tie though his hair was still a bloody mess, as was to be expected from a man who probably didn't even own a comb.

Nudging Émilie away with the heel of his shoe, Q leaned over Bond to set the stack of clothes on the edge of the sink. Gesturing to them, he explained, "These should fit. If they don't, I think I might have something else. It's nothing fancy but they should be better than your suit. Uh, at least what's left of it."

"I'm sure they'll be fine," Bond answered, not bothering to so much as glance at the clothes Q had brought him. Q nodded, reaching behind himself for the doorknob, his hand missing and thumping against the door a few times.

Bond couldn't help but find Q's clumsiness rather endearing. Perhaps that was what prompted him to, apropos to nothing, blurt, "Why do you have tampons?"

He took another glance into the under-sink cabinet after asking, re-examining the contents again. Sure enough, there was a deep purple box of tampons, nestled right next to a pink box of sanitary pads.

"What?" Q asked, his brows drawing together tightly in clear confusion. Then, a moment later, realisation dawned on his face. "Oh! I keep those in case I have a guest who happens to need them. It's just common courtesy."

Q's tone of voice implied that Bond was thick for having even  _ thought  _ to ask such a thing. He shrugged a shoulder as he continued on, "I always keep some in stock in Q Branch, too. Force of habit, I suppose. What are you looking for, anyway?"

Bond straightened up, opening his mouth to ask if Q had a spare toothbrush tucked away somewhere. He was cut off before he could speak by a soft, distressed sound from Q who took a few steps closer, raising a hand to very gently touch the bruises along Bond's right side.

Q winced in sympathy as he examined the dark bruises and occasional cut higher up on his chest, a deep crease forming between his brows. Shaking his head, Q tsk-ed, "Reckless idiot. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm a reckless idiot?" Bond supplied with a wide, unabashed grin as Q's eyes strayed from Bond's side, travelling over his chest and down his arms, clearly searching for any other injuries that Bond might be hiding. Q just shook his head and ducked down to rummage around through the cabinet, retrieving a handful of gauze pads and a roll of medical tape.

Laying his cool hands on Bond's hips, Q guided him to sit on the lip of the tub. He fussed over Bond like a mother hen as he meticulously examined and then bandaged the injuries along his side, mumbling under his breath about irresponsible agents and their pathological avoidance of Medical.

"You'd think you all had bloody tomophobia," Q mused as he finished applying yet another sterile bandage to Bond's side, his hands gentle despite the sharpness of his tongue. Bond had an inkling of what that meant but didn't comment, too busy trying not to react to the entirely too welcome feel of Q's hands on his bare skin.

"A toothbrush," Bond barked abruptly, startling both himself and Q who glanced up at him, clearly confused, his hands stilling where they rested on Bond's abdomen. Feeling like an idiot for having such a strong reaction to something as innocuous as Q's hands on him as he treated his injuries, Bond cleared his throat and clarified, "I was looking for a toothbrush."

"Oh!" Q chirped, understanding blooming on his face. After double checking his handiwork on Bond, he turned back around to the sink. Ignoring the cabinet under the sink, he reached up to the side of the mirror hung over the sink, tugging gently to reveal that the mirror doubled as a medicine cabinet.

Bond was sure that he had probably seen Q use the mirror cabinet before while fetching supplies to give Bond medical attention, but he must have been too out of sorts to realise it. No better the case, Q grabbed a toothbrush out of the cabinet, still in the plastic packaging, and handed it to Bond.

Sending Bond a smile, Q shut the medicine cabinet and turned to open the bathroom door. He shooed Émilie away again, turning back to Bond to inform him, "Mouthwash is under the sink. And please try not to make a mess."

That said, he closed the door behind himself with a soft click, leaving Bond to brush his teeth and redress. Moving the pile of clothes onto the lid of the toilet, Bond stood and set about brushing his teeth with Q's cinnamon toothpaste because, of course, Q didn't use mint flavoured toothpaste like the rest of the  _ hoi polloi. _

He rinsed with a capful of Q's mouthwash that was similarly cinnamon flavoured, chasing the morning breath and lingering taste of horrid Scotch and airplane food out of his mouth. After rinsing out the sink, he turned to the pile of clothes that Q had left for him: a light grey t-shirt, dark wash jeans, and a pair of white socks.

The t-shirt was a perfect fit, loose enough to be comfortable but not so much as to be baggy the way that Q usually wore his clothes. The jeans looked to be just his size and the socks were thick and warm. But there were no pants, leaving Bond with a difficult decision.

He could either re-don the boxer briefs he had worn with his now destroyed suit or simply go commando, so to speak. Wincing at the thought of rough denim and the brass zip anywhere near his most intimate appendage had him tugging on his black boxer briefs, the jeans following shortly afterwards.

After running the towel through his hair one last time before tossing it into the laundry bin, Bond grabbed his shoulder holster and ventured out of the bathroom. He was greeted by Émilie weaving around his legs and the unexpected scent of coffee wafting through the air.

Unexpected because Q rarely ever drank coffee, only deigning to forego his tea in favour of the more caffeinated drink when he was overseeing particularly lengthy or complicated missions. What in god's name was he doing making coffee at nearly six in the morning when he was off-duty and should have been getting some sleep?

Carefully tiptoeing around Émilie in an attempt to avoid tripping over her and jostling his injuries, Bond walked into the kitchen where Q was readying two mugs. He turned to Bond with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, greeting, "Black, two sugars."

Bond slung his holster over one of his shoulders, freeing up his hands so he could abrupt the offered cup of coffee, Émilie letting out a needy whine at his feet. Fittingly, the coffee Q handed him was served in an ivory mug emblazoned with the molecular structure of caffeine. Bond immediately recognised it as one of the mugs Q used exclusively for coffee.

Bond sent Q a grateful smile, watching fondly as Q turned back to the mug on the counter. He diligently fussed over his tea, measuring out tea leaves to place in his tea infuser that was shaped like the Loch Ness monster.

Bond had gotten him it while in Scotland. His trip to the Highlands hadn't been a professional one, a personal visit to Glencoe to oversee part of the reconstruction of Skyfall.

Nonetheless, he had seen the tea infuser in a local convenience shop and had immediately thought of Q, purchasing it on pure impulse and presenting it to his Quartermaster upon his return to London.

Now, Bond watched as Q carefully prepared his tea, timing how long it steeped and pulling the sugar bowl closer. It was ridiculously endearing how precise he was about his tea, so much so that he rarely trusted others to make him a cuppa, only begrudgingly allowing it when in dire straits, usually when he was monitoring a mission that required his undivided attention and an uninterrupted intake of caffeine.

Once he was satisfied with the amount of steeping, Q set the infuser aside and picked up his mug, a black one with white coding command prompts adorning it. Tilting his head to look at Bond, Q asked, "Are you hungry? I've been meaning to go to Tesco so I don't have much but I think I have some leftovers, if you'd like. Shepherd's pie and some stuffed peppers."

"I ate on the flight," Bond explained, leaning against the wall as Q added a few spoonfuls of sugar to his tea and turned to the side to face Bond. Looking Q up and down, at his slender build that he tried to hide under his oversized cardigans and baggy anorak, Bond urged, "But you should eat."

"Already did, actually," Q returned, to which Bond raised a skeptical brow, well aware of Q's tendency to neglect eating while working. Q smiled rather self-consciously, obviously thinking the same thing, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "Moneypenny brought me takeaway a few hours ago. She insisted I eat. You know how  _ persuasive  _ she can be."

Bond smiled to himself as he took a sip of his coffee, imagining Moneypenny marching into Q Branch in her sky-high heels and an Armani dress and bodily dragging Q away from his computer to practically force feed him chicken vindaloo or yakitori. He could perfectly envision Q's petulant whining and Moneypenny's refusal to relent until he finished whatever takeaway dish she had brought him.

But as amusing as the mental image was, Bond curled his lip a moment later, coffee not exactly mixing well with the lingering taste of cinnamon mouthwash. He was distracted from the horrendous flavour combination by Q.

"Are you feeling up to a quick debriefing?" Q asked, raising his head to look at Bond. Wrinkling his nose, he went on, "It'll save you from having to debrief with Mallory. He's not exactly in the best of moods."

"He have something up his arse?" Bond joked, flashing Q a crooked grin. But Q didn't seem very amused.

"Well, he's understandably a bit miffed that you disappeared again," Q explained, turning to walk into the sitting room. Bond obediently followed him, carefully stepping over Émilie who had decided to plop down in the middle of the hallway since no one was paying her any attention.

"He threw a bit of a strop," Q added as he dragged the wingback armchair and across the room to arrange it by the sliding glass door, the wooden legs sliding easily over the hardwood floor without scraping. Taking a seat in the armchair, which he turned around to face the rest of the room, Q gestured towards the sofa, motioning for Bond to sit. "Nearly had an aneurysm."

"He's not too happy with me, either," Q said a moment later, almost as an afterthought, shifting to get more comfortable. Bond immediately stiffened at Q's words.

He stiffly took a seat beside Félicette on the sofa, careful not to spill his coffee. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "What do you mean?"

Q sighed, looking down at his cup of tea in his lap as he stirred it slowly. Eyes on his spoon, he admitted, "He had a few choice words about my design for earpieces. Said they clearly weren't good enough if they could just stop working on an active mission."

"My earpiece didn't just stop working," Bond reported, offended on Q's behalf. He was already thinking of the myriad ways in which he could potentially get back at Mallory for his comments as he explained, "It blew up in the car."

"Judging by your injuries, you weren't in any explosion," Q observed, raising his head to narrow his eyes at Bond, clearly skeptical. "How did the earpiece explode in the car if you weren't in it and you didn't toss it because it stopped working?"

"It fell out when the car rolled over," Bond recounted, laying a hand on Félicette's side, slowly testing the waters. When she didn't hiss or try to rip his arm off, he ran his fingers through her  fur, shrugging at Q. "It was still in the car when I blew it up."

"So Mallory was right," Q hummed, nodding to himself with a small frown, looking down at his tea again. "The design is flawed."

"It's not flawed, it's just not meant for car rollovers," Bond insisted, his protective streak flaring up quite brilliantly. He really would need to have a word with Mallory.

"If the design doesn't account for all possible contingencies an agent might face in the field, it's flawed," Q retorted, sending Bond a sharp look. Sniffing, he took a long sip of his tea, licking his lips before announcing, "We can start the debriefing now, if you're ready."

So, Bond did. He told Q everything, from the moment he had arrived in Cairo to receiving the invitation to have drinks with the expats at the nightclub to his return flight touching down at Heathrow.

He dutifully recounted the beginning of the evening, the rowdy good-natured conversation over gin cocktails and the flirtatious looks a certain lonely wife had thrown him. He somewhat awkwardly explained their little tryst in the bathroom of the club, punctuating the retelling with long, stalling sips of his coffee until Q chastised him for his reluctance to be forthright.

"Bloody hell, Bond," Q sighed heavily, resting his mug on his knee. Shaking his head with a weary look on his face, he chided, "It's not like I didn't hear the entire thing! I'm not exactly squeamish about these things, you know. I wouldn't be a very good Quartermaster if I was."

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. His voice softened a bit as he went on, "I may not particularly  _ enjoy  _ listening to agents shag their way across the globe, but it's part of my job so just tell me what happened."

Again, he did. He told Q about following the woman to the loo, about pinning her against the wall and slipping his hand between her thighs, about bringing her off to loosen her tongue. Still feeling incredibly and uncharacteristically awkward, Bond continued on, detailing the ambush in the nightclub and the car chase afterwards, the crash and subsequent use of the pen lighter to eliminate his pursuers once and for all.

"Then you just...walked back to the airport?" Q questioned rather incredulously, taking a sip of his tea. He looked rather skeptical of Bond's explanation, raising a brow and squinting at him.

"Yes," Bond succinctly confirmed, scratching Félicette behind her left ear. He didn't understand what was so unbelievable about his story, he had accomplished much wilder feats when he wasn't even on-duty.

Q just shrugged and polished off his tea, pouting down at his empty mug. With an exasperated sigh, he ventured, "I suppose it's not even worth asking if you brought any equipment back."

"Oh, on the contrary, my dear Quartermaster," Bond started, beaming at Q. He brandished his Walther in its holster, waving it about with a proud flourish. It was worth it for how Q absolutely lit up.

Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, Q's eyes widened as a wide smile stretched across his face. Perking up, he sat up straighter in his seat, excitement radiating off of him.

"Just a moment," he insisted as he stood from the armchair and excused himself to the kitchen to rinse out his mug. As Bond listened to the sound of the kitchen tap, he bit his lip and smiled to himself, inordinately pleased with how excited he had made Q with such a simple gesture.

"Now let me see what you've brought me," Q cooed as he bustled back into the sitting room, making grabby hands at the holster. Bond handed it over without complaint, watching as Q lovingly ran his fingers over the Walther's grip.

Taking a seat on the arm of the chair, Q pulled the Walther out of the holster, carefully inspecting it with a look of pure glee on his face. There wasn't so much as a scratch on it, just as pristine as it had been when Q had given it to him before the mission.

Q was clearly impressed, reverently running his fingers over the slide and barrel of the gun. Ejecting the magazine to investigate the bullets, all of them accounted for, Q glanced up at Bond, he gushed, "Why, 007, it's not my birthday for months! What did I do to earn such a treat?"

"Consider it a thank you for keeping me alive," Bond offered, rubbing small circles onto Félicette's belly when she rolled onto her back with a throaty purr. Apparently, Q wasn't the only one pleased with his ability to return equipment intact.

Q let out a rather undignified snort, shaking his head. "I've kept you alive on every mission and yet you usually bring me back nothing but steering wheels and ridiculous souvenirs."

"And chocolates," Bond added, recalling the time he had returned from a mission to Fortaleza with a jaguar figurine hand-carved out of a large block of tiger's eye and a box of decadent  _ brigadeiro. _ Q had adored both.

"Yes, and chocolates," Q agreed with a fond smile, placing the Walther back into its holster. He set it aside on the cushion of the armchair, silence falling over them as they both grew quiet.

Bond turned his head to watch the rain. Q did the same.

It hadn't lessened in intensity at all, if anything the rainfall had become even heavier. Despite the early hour, it was no brighter outside, dark grey clouds blotting out the early morning sunlight rising over the horizon.

The trees across the street in Regent's Park swayed and danced in the strong wind, casting shadows down the street. Rustling leaves could be heard all the way in Q's flat, a lullaby-like susurration harmonising with the heavy rain.

Bond quietly finished his coffee, feeling like he had overstayed his welcome despite how much he loathed the idea of walking all the way to Chelsea in the rain, not having any money for either the Tube or a cab. Despite how much he wanted to linger in Q's flat.

But no matter how much he wanted to stay, he was sure that Q wanted to sleep, knew that he desperately needed it after working for so long. So, he stood, leaning across the length of the sofa to set his empty mug down on the side table.

"I suppose I should be on my way, then," he said, reaching down to give Félicette one last scratch under the chin, the content feline stretching out her front legs and spreading her toes. He sent Q a smile that was somewhat forced, murmuring, "Goodnight, Q."

"You never answered my question," Q said suddenly, halting Bond in his tracks. He turned to look up at Bond, eyes wide and searching.

Bond frowned, replaying the evening's conversation over in his head, trying to discern what question of Q's he had failed to answer. He couldn't think of any, absolutely certain that he had answered each and every question about the mission.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wonder for very long. A moment later, Q clarified, "A few weeks ago, at the pub. You never answered my question."

The same panicky shock that had frozen him at the pub two weeks earlier suddenly had him tensing again, stock-still like a deer in the headlamps. It coursed through him, his stomach fluttering and his fingers twitching.

He felt trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place, once again wondering what in the hell he was supposed to say. He glanced at the sliding glass door out of the corner of his eye, briefly considering throwing himself through it to avoid answering the question.

He managed to resist the urge, uncharacteristically nervous as he licked his lips. Reluctantly meeting Q's eyes, he desperately attempted to reason, "Alec did. You got your answer."

"I got Alec's answer," Q replied, standing up and taking a few steps towards Bond. He drew closer until there were only a few centimetres between them, so close their bodies were nearly pressed against one another.

Q's eyes were downcast, his bottom lip berry pink as he chewed it for a long moment, clearly thinking. He slowly reached out with his left hand, tangling his long fingers in the soft grey cotton of Bond's borrowed t-shirt, tethering Bond to him and thwarting any potential escape.

Painstakingly slow, Q raised his eyes to meet Bond's, misty green meeting icy blue with an almost electric jolt that surged through them both. His voice soft, he whispered, "But I want to know yours."

Bond swallowed thickly, his tongue feeling heavy and clumsy, all of his charm and suavity evaporated by one look from Q. His resolve crumbling under Q's watchful, searching gaze, he impulsively blurted, "I think you already know my answer."

He watched the bob of Q's Adam's apple as he swallowed, the anxious swipe of a pink tongue over berry-bitten lips, while he shifted even closer until only a hairbreadth separated them. Then Bond saw nothing, his eyes slipping closed as Q leaned in to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting somewhere! The rating will change for the next chapter because it'll mostly be smut with some feelings and fluff.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at hale-of-stiles-heart and, please, feel free to send me prompts!


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